Page 4 of Stealing Embers

“I can’t imagine it holds a candle to this feast.”

Is that French toast?

I’ve only had that dish once before. When I was about eight or nine the foster family I was living with decided to celebrate my birthday with a sugary breakfast. That was one of the better days.

Brushing aside melancholy thoughts, I bring a piece of syrup-soaked bread to my mouth.

Heaven.

“This is delish.”

“Thanks.” Her smile reaches her eyes and her whole face lights up. I love that about her—how one facial expression conveys so much emotion. “It was actually my grandmother’s recipe.”

“Mm-mmm,” I mumble as I stuff my face with a third bite of the treat.

“So, I was wondering something.” Karen presses her lips together as she regards me. Something about the sudden stiffness to her posture causes a rock to form in my stomach. I swallow hard and chase the food with a sip of orange juice while I wait for her to continue.

Years of intuition tell me my meal is over.

“I’ve never seen you without a hat. Would you mind if I ask what color your hair is?”

It’s a harmless question, but a red alarm starts screaming bloody murder inside my head. My intuition has been right too many times to ignore it now.

Standing swiftly, I grab my bag and backpedal, never taking my eyes off Karen.

“Lizzie, what are you doing?” A worried line appears between her eyes as she stands too—her height rivaling my own almost-six feet—and takes a step forward. She holds her arms up in front of her, palms facing me in the universal gesture for “calm down.”

Is she trying not to scare me off?

Too late for that.

“Thanks so much for the breakfast. And for everything. But I should probably get going.” I don’t stop my steady retreat, but she halts. That leeches some of the paranoia out of my system.

She isn’t coming after me. That’s good.

“Was it because I asked about your hair? You don’t have to tell me, I was just—”

A crash inside the diner has both our heads swiveling to the back door.

A normal person would assume it’s the cook or one of the wait staff.

A normal person wouldn’t shoot an accusing glare at the person kind enough to feed her.

A normal person would smile warmly, sit down, and eat as much of the amazing breakfast as she could fit in her belly.

I’m far from a normal person.

“Emberly, this isn’t—”

That one word causes my adrenaline to spike ten times stronger than my morning wake-up call.

Emberly. She knows my name. Myrealname.

Chapter Two

The widening of Karen’s eyes reveals she hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

I should be running right now.